By the time they crossed the forest threshold and passed into the familiar clearing of camp, Caelus prayed for quiet.

  But he was a fool.

  He should have known.

  He should have known that returning to camp after that disastrous report would not be the end of his suffering.

  Because the moment he made it back into camp, someone spotted him.

  And then, from across the firepit…

  “HEY, LOOK, THE PRISONER IS BACK!”

  Roaring laughter.

  Caelus flinched like he’d been struck.

  God no. Not again.

  He dismounted with all the grace of a man preparing to throw hands.

  Another mercenary leaned out of a tent. “Damn, you managed to escape? Thought we had you for good.”

  “I was not—” Caelus started, whipping around with his teeth bared.

  “HE WASN’T HELD HOSTAGE, GUYS,” someone else howled. “HE JUST COULDN’T LEAVE.”

  Laughter rippled through the camp in a wave.

  Caelus saw red. He marched forward, gritting his teeth. “I do not see what is so amusing about—”

  “Oh no, boys, lower your voices! We don’t want him running off to snitch!” One wheezed.

  “No worries, mate, he ain’t going anywhere. He’s stuck with us!” Another echoed.

  Caelus physically recoiled.

  He was never going to recover from this.

  And then—an insult stacked upon injury—the trader’s cart rolled in.

  Loaded to the brim.

  Milk.

  Sugar.

  Cream.

  More berries than any sane person needed.

  Scouts returned next—saddlebags bulging with wild fruit as though a siege was underway.

  “Are you bracing for war?” Caelus muttered, glaring daggers at everything and everyone.

  Rish was vibrating. “IS IT HAPPENING?!”

  Sol climbed onto the arena table. A prophet preparing for crucifixion.

  “ALRIGHT, LUNATICS,” he bellowed, arms flung wide to the heavens, “ICE CREAM PARTY. BECAUSE I LIVED. AGAIN!”

  The cheering was deafening.

  Icecream?

  It was a show.

  Barrels were rolled into the square.

  Gorrath, Killeon, Nolan, mercenaries who’s names Cael didn’t know, all massive, battle-hardened killers… were churning cream with berries. With both hands, each looking disturbingly content.

  Varg stood beside them, sleeves rolled, face deadpan, folding sugar in with the solemnity of a burial rite.

  Ysilla stormed between the barrels, smacking giant hands with a spoon. She was delicate, but between the men she looked like a feral squirrel. And yet she yelled at them like a mother. Charred hands on her hips, spoon in her fist.

  “YOU’RE WHIPPING IT, NOT BAPTIZING IT—KILLEON THAT’S TOO MUCH—”

  But the orc received only praise. She was playing favorites.

  He gave her a quiet grunt. Smiled. Kept going. She nodded approvingly at him.

  Anders appeared next, arms raised in a grand gesture. A stage magician.

  He spun, twirled, summoned frost like a bard high on his own magic.

  Barrels shimmered. Sparkled. Mist swirled through the square.

  The rime curled across the casks, painting the wood with white filigree. Light caught on the surface like moonlight trapped in churned cream, still and sacred.

  Rish gasped, clapping her hands, eyes wet with childlike wonder.

  “This is the greatest day of my life.” She practically whined.

  Meanwhile, Caelus sat to the side, absolutely still, watching it all unfold with horror.

  “I thought this was supposed to be a war camp,” he muttered to himself, heavy with disbelief, watching frost swirl like a fairytale over barrels of cursed dairy.

  Little sparkles of cold mist floated in the air. Totally unnecessary. Fully theatrical.

  The crowd around the ice cream pit thickened, swiftly turning into a festival mob—mercenaries rushing forward with bowls and spoons like kids on feast day. Someone yelled “NO CUTTING THE LINE!” as Nolan fake-tackled Anders into the dirt for no god damn reason.

  The chaos pressed in. Caelus moved back, instinctively—turning away from the madness, retreating into what little solitude remained at the edge of the square.

  He wasn’t part of this. He wasn’t invited to this. He was—

  CLANG.

  Something landed in his lap like a cannonball.

  His armor rang deafeningly loud.

  His soul left his body.

  He looked down.

  A bowl. Massive. Ornate. It looked like it cost more than his life.

  Filled to the brim with ice cream so beautiful it felt it should be sacrilege to touch.

  He should have been thinking about sin. About failure. About all he’d done wrong. But instead, his mind locked onto the swirl of colors in the bowl.

  Strawberry. Blackcurrant. Blueberry. Wild mint.

  Perfect spheres. Glossed and gleaming as polished gemstones.

  Each flavor arranged, decorated enough to be worthy of being a royal offering.

  No warning. No explanation.

  He looked up—

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  But Solferen was already walking away, humming. Not even looking back.

  Caelus blinked. Wordless. His breath hitched. Surprise, yes—but mostly from the weight of it.

  Not the bowl. The gesture.

  This wasn’t food.

  This was art.

  This was blasphemy on porcelain.

  He hesitated.

  Just for a second.

  He hadn’t expected to get any.

  Least of all from him.

  But then again—

  He was already trapped in this Rot. Might as well eat like a heretic.

  He took a bite.

  His eyes widened. Not from flavor—though undeniably it was shocking—but from betrayal. Because he didn’t want to like it.

  He did.

  This wasn’t something found at the Emperor’s table.

  Not even in holy cities.

  This was forbidden.

  This was illegal.

  This was—

  Divine.

  That evening, they all sat together again.

  Everyone gathered around the firepit—laughing, glowing, high on sugar and summer air.

  Drums thudded in the background. Warm light painted every face in amber.

  Rish was harassing Gorrath.

  They were seated across from one another, elbows on the table, hands locked.

  The rest of the party gathered to watch, voices buzzing with bets. Killeon looked vaguely offended by the entire premise.

  Ysilla sighed nearby, already knowing exactly how this was going to end.

  Rish grinned wolfishly. The orc didn’t even blink.

  “You’re gonna lose.” She mused.

  No response. Just a blink.

  She pouted dramatically. “What, no threats? No growling? No ‘I’ll break your arm, half-blood’? At least insult my ancestors, big guy.”

  The orc blinked slowly, his eyes gleamed like smoldering coal. Then, with zero effort, slammed her arm into the table as if swatting a fly.

  Rish let out a bark of disbelief. The mercs roared with laughter. Cheers exploded around them.

  Gorrath picked up his drink like nothing happened. Went straight back to ignoring her entire existence.

  Rish, unfazed, leaned in with a sly, cocky smirk. “Do it again. Bet I’ll win this time.”

  The orc didn’t react. Only took a slow sip of his drink. Refused eye contact like it was contagious.

  She grinned wider. She was having the time of her life.

  Then she spun on Killeon. “You, then.”

  “No.”

  “Scared?”

  “No.”

  “Admit it.”

  “…No.”

  She let out a noise of a dying animal. “WHY do you people never fight me?!”

  Behind them, Nolan and Varg were at it again.

  No one knew who started it.

  Maybe Nolan said something stupid.

  Maybe Varg stole something again.

  Maybe it was just normal dinner for them.

  Regardless, they were rolling on the ground in full brawl mode within seconds.

  They crashed straight into a tent.

  Inside, Anders was sitting cross-legged on a cushion, spoon in his mouth, quietly reading a book. He didn’t even flinch. Just looked up, scowling, like this was the third time today.

  “When elephants fight,” he said flatly, “it is the grass that suffers.”

  Nolan and Varg froze, mid-wrestle, blinking at his summoned riddle. “What?”

  Anders flipped a page. “I hope whatever you’re fighting over was worth it, because you’re both dying now.”

  Varg didn’t miss a beat. “T’was about whether Nolan sheds in his sleep.”

  “I don’t!” Nolan protested, shoving at him. “Varg’s just mad he woke up with fur in his mouth!”

  Anders sighed, standing up. “…You know what? You both deserve death.”

  Out by the fire, Sol was lounging, watching the entropy unfold, eyebrows raised with slight amusement. “Should we stop them?”

  Rish threw up her hands. “Why are they fighting each other but no one will fight me?!”

  “They’re bonding,” Ysilla said, completely unbothered.

  “They’re going to kill each other,” Bella added, almost cheerfully, perched right beside her.

  Dal, already resigned, was rubbing his temple. “Either way, I’m on cleanup duty.”

  No one moved.

  Honestly? At this point, it wasn’t even considered a real fight.

  Just enrichment time for the idiots.

  “GROWN ASS MAN CASTING SPELLS!” A voice came behind the tents. “FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN, PICK A SWORD!”

  Snow flew into the air with a yelp of a wounded dog in retaliation.

  Even Rovena had emerged, silent and regal. She let Ysilla braid her long chocolate hair while Bella whispered gossip beside her with eyes glittering with secrets.

  They looked like—

  Family.

  The kind Caelus had never known.

  His lips parted. Nothing came out.

  What would he even say? That this was wrong? That this was... nice?

  Gross.

  He lingered near the edge of it all, quiet, a now-empty bowl in his lap.

  The fire crackled.

  Someone started singing again—louder now, feet stomping with the beat. Drums pounded with a second heartbeat through the clearing. People danced around the fire. Someone threw flower petals, and they burst like little stars in the flames.

  The whole camp pulsed with life.

  And Caelus… He sat with the weight of too much stillness.

  He couldn’t stop thinking—

  How could people—barbarians and mercenaries they might be, but still—people… lionize someone, something, like him?

  Monsters, he’d been told.

  Yet they laughed.

  They built.

  They missed each other.

  They celebrated survival.

  They danced tonight—because their king was alive.

  Caelus only remembered the letter when he saw her.

  Miranda—red hair tied back in a loose ponytail, knife tucked into her belt, laughing about something with Bella, light catching the rings in her ears. She moved like trouble and confidence had a child, and Caelus’ stomach sank the second he recognized her.

  He stood.

  Walked over.

  Didn’t say a word—just motioned for her to follow.

  Miranda blinked, surprised, but shrugged and went along, trailing him a short distance away from the fire. The music dimmed behind them, the warmth of the crowd fading into the rustle of leaves.

  They stopped just beyond the edge of the circle.

  Caelus let out a long, world-weary sigh. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the crumpled parchment. He offered it without ceremony—arm extended, as if handing her a lit explosive.

  “A boy from the cathedral asked me to give you this.”

  He braced for laughter. For mockery. For her to toss it straight into the fire without even reading it.

  But instead—

  Miranda gasped.

  Actually gasped.

  She clutched the letter with both hands as thoough it was the most precious thing she’d ever received.

  She clutched it like it might vanish.

  Eyes wide. Lips parted. Pure, radiant joy blooming across her face.

  “Oh, thank you!” She beamed, curtsying—not out of manners, but sheer excitement. She couldn’t keep still. “I didn’t think he’d actually write.”

  Caelus blinked. Stunned.

  Then—

  “Could you deliver my reply next time you’re back?”

  He stared. “I—what?”

  She looked at him so earnestly he nodded before his brain could catch up. He should have told her no. That it wasn’t proper. That it was beneath him.

  But his brain stalled, tangled in the warmth of her eyes.

  His mouth betrayed him. Again. His body had started saying ‘yes’ before his soul could scream ‘no’.

  “Alright.” He said automatically.

  Too late.

  Far too late.

  The words were already in the air.

  He cringed. Like he’d just knocked over the most expensive vase in the ballroom.

  With a sword.

  During a mass.

  And then—because fate was particularly cruel that day—

  Varg passed by.

  His shirt was wet. Bits of snow stuck to his boots and shoulders like he’d just lost a snowball war against an entire village of children. His grin was stupidly wide.

  He glanced at the two of them.

  Paused.

  Emerald eyes narrowed with delight.

  “Oh by the gods,” he rumbled, voice dripping with glee. “Are you flirting?! Is that a love letter?!”

  Miranda vanished. A puff of smoke would’ve been less effective.

  Gone.

  Caelus took the hit like a man shot through the ribs.

  There was no clearing his name now.

  He turned. Said nothing.

  Walked away in cold, horrified silence.

  He went straight to his tent.

  Straight to bed.

  Didn’t even take off his boots.

  Sleep, for once, was a mercy.

  But the mercy didn’t come fast enough.

  Because of ice cream.

  Because of too much sugar. Too many thoughts. Too much joy and existential horror he didn’t understand how to process all at once.

  He lay stiff on the cot, still in half-armor, as some unblinking corpse propped against the idea of rest.

  The tent is too warm. His chest is too tight. His thoughts are too loud.

  He stared at the canvas ceiling hoping it might give him answers.

  Outside, the music has shifted. Softer now. Slower. Not the roaring chaos of drums and stomping boots—just a flute, and a hum beneath it, steady and low like the breathing of something ancient.

  Someone passes by the tent.

  A voice, humming.

  Solferen. Unmistakable.

  It was barely there—too quiet to be teasing, too soft to be mocking.

  But it lingered in Caelus' bones anyway.

  He turned over, hating everything. Especially himself.

  The laughter from earlier had long faded. The songs drift like specters between tents. And yet… something inside him refused to quiet.

  He had faced monsters.

  Death itself.

  But tonight, what kept him awake was a bowl of frozen sweetness passed from hand to hand. A girl who smiled at a love letter. A Pale Elf who scolded them for eating too fast.

  A godforsaken camp that made a feast out of magic and fruit and insanity.

  And a man who had no right to be… humane.

  Caelus pressed a hand to his chest. It ached.

  He was supposed to feel damned. Instead, he felt… full.

  And in the darkness, still wide awake, he whispered like a prayer.

  “…What in the lightless depths of the Void is happening to me?”

  No god answered.